Unsung Anthems
by PhantomMemories
Summary: Anthology piece: Art by Julia S.E.G.,Beta ArthurKirkland (TY both.) England is spared strafing by an enemy plane because a crazy pilot takes a few unnecessary risks to keep him safe, and then vanishes with Canada before England can thank him or see him properly. America is still neutral, so it can't be America... can it? Besides, America would be making a lot more noise...


Woolston, Southhampton September 26, 1940

England listened to the radio chatter as Germany's remaining bombers were decisively turned away from London, the aches and pains of the bombs echoing to his very bones. They had hurt him, were still hurting him, however, he had prevailed thus far.

Britain would not fall.

Not yet, at any rate. Two months of bombings was beginning to take a toll upon his people, upon his person. And again, he wondered at America's lack of response beyond the promise of supplies, and cloak of neutrality. Then again, the boy was probably still abed with the remains of the economic depression that had been lingering for the past decade.

_Indisposed. _ America's boss had told him. _Indefinitely._

"Sir Kirkland!" The voice was audible over the sound of the machines making more of the airplanes that were currently fighting off a second, less potent German run. A tour of the facilities had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time- get him away from London, let him have a moment to see that things were running properly- "Sir Kirkland."

An airman stopped in front of him, saluting briskly.

"Yes?" England said, feeling a bit of impatience rising. All he wanted to do at this moment was to return to his quarters at the local inn, and enjoy his tea. "What is it, man?"

"There seems to be a third wave coming," The young man- good lord, he must be all of eighteen- the young man relaxed, but only slightly, "I'm to escort you to your designated shelter, per the Prime Minister."

"Bloody fantastic," England put his hand over his eyes to stare into the pre-twilight skies. "A bit late for tea. We'll have to just offer them fire."

"We've already had a couple of ours go down, but not as many as they've lost," The boy told him, "Once I get you to the shelter, I'm to get into the air myself."

"Anxious to get into the fight, are we?" England sighed, "All right then-"

The sound of engines suddenly grew louder, as one of the enemy dove on their position- almost as though they knew who was on the ground at that very moment, and his importance in the grand scheme of the British Empire- England braced himself for the staccato sound of gunfire- if the attack pattern held true, strafing was sure to follow.

"Sir!" His escort's hand had been on his arm to tug him behind shelter, but now fell away slack. The engines were louder than he'd expected- and once he opened his eyes he could see why. A fighter had broken away from the RAF squadron, and was matching the speed of the enemy- so close that England could swear that the wing of the Spitfire striking sparks on the Messerschmitts' flank.

Down they came- the proximity of the RAF fighter making certain that Germany's pilot would be far too distracted to attempt to target anything in particular- and he did not, instead attempting to shoot at a target that was much too close, and mostly failing. There were marks where the Spitfire had been struck before, bullets shaving off the painted circles on the wings and side.

It seemed as though his pilot (Or Canada's- he couldn't actually get a sense on that flyboy for some reason-) was edging the other fighter to pull up and away from the ground. Or at least steering him away from the facility behind them. Rather like a sheepdog on duty- or a cowboy rounding up the cattle- England clamped down on that train of thought swiftly.

"Pilot's crazy," his escort shouted over the noise. "You can't fly that close—"

"It's working, so I can't complain too much."

"He's taking flack damage as well as impact. From the sound, I'd say his engine's going to quit soon." The planes had risen steadily, curving away from the factory, but England could hear that the boy beside him was correct. There was a stutter to the engine now.

It didn't seem to stop the pilot, however, because once they were over a field, the Spitfire pulled away from the Messerschmidt, and opened fire. England winced as the wreckage fell into the dry field and caught the whole thing afire.

The sound of airplane engines faded a bit, so that when England looked up into the sky once more, he found that the main battle was over- and the RAF fighters who were still capable were giving chase to the fleeing enemy.

A sudden silence came over the region, aside from the crackle of flame, and the sound of settling wreckage. Two planes remained in the sky over Woolston, but only the sound of one reached their ears.

"His engine's given out." The airman said, voice suddenly too loud for the day. "He'll be coming down soon. If he can handle an unpowered landing."

"Where?"

"The test strip, sir." A gesture towards a spot beyond the field. "I think the other plane is doing what they can. We can run out in my lorry, but I don't think we can get close."

The tarmac was full of potholes created by bombs, vehicles on fire, and a selection of people yelling directions to clear the way for the planes. England didn't actually see them land, however, by the time they got to view of the planes, they'd already heard the story.

"They did a nice job of that, they did, never seen two pilots get so in synch- he almost crashed, but the other guy shored him up, and they're safe an' down. Dunno how good it's going to be after that- the Spitfire the crazy one was flyin' ain't in such good shape. No tellin' how the driver is."

The pilot of the relatively intact plane had lept out of his cockpit, it appeared, and was aiding the medics that had raced ahead of them to extract the other pilot from his own apparently damaged craft. (Also insane, the wagoneers, the way they swerved around obsticles, and through the fray like that. Nerves of steel, they must have-).

"A pair of the Canadians, flag's on his jacket." The escort had caught him up. Just as the pilot tore off his cap and goggles. "They're good fighters, would be a shame to lose one."

Matthew.

"You know him, sir?" England hadn't even realised he'd spoken the name aloud.

"I do- let's get closer." There was more resistance, however, he was able to get close enough.

"...Don't you dare just close your eyes, you idiot." Matthew was almost yelling, as the nearly limp body was settled onto the stretcher. "What were you thinking?"

If there was a reply, it was far too soft for England to hear.

"Matthew?" The sound of his human name seemed to startle Canada, and he stepped away from the side of the wounded pilot.

"Arthur- what are you doing here-"

"I was touring, and then this brave idiot stopped a kraut from putting a few holes in me and my companion." England glanced at the plane's fairly respectable tally of kills. "Is he going to be all right then?"

"Y- I don't know." Canada, oddly enough, remained in a pose between him and the prone body of the pilot. "We'll have to get him out of here first, and to the hospital. The doctors can tell better than I can. His cockpit glass shattered—"

Lucky to be breathing then.

"We shouldn't delay them- Let me know, please. I'd like to thank him myself. He's one of yours, then?" No sense of the probably unconscious man being one of his own. There were enough who weren't British on his soil right now to completely throw him off, however.

"Oh- er. Yes." Canada said. "One of mine- "

"Sir," the escort reminded him. "The prime minister is waiting for your call. I'm sure he would be gratified to know that you're safe."

"Blast. All right then- let me know, Matthew." England conceded, and allowed himself to be led away. He couldn't help, however, the feeling of something not quite right, and glanced behind Matthew before he was led away. Only to catch a glimpse of the second pilot being loaded into the truck, black hair ruffled by the evening breezes, and a familiar face (albeit a bloodied one)-

-but it couldn't be him. He wouldn't be here, and not with that colouring-

Matthew hopped into the back of the ambulance, and they were off.

England turned back, watching the lights vanishing into the distance- his foot caught on a bit of debris, sending a bit of metal and glass skittering across the tarmac.

Someone had dropped a pair of spectacles.

England reminded himself-_America is neutral_, as he picked them up. He wouldn't be here, couldn't be here. And even if he were here, he wouldn't have taken such great pains to help England. Not without bragging about it. Not without letting him know he was there.

The pilot just had a similar build, and face, and was one of Canada's people.

The thought bothered him for the rest of the evening.

Dawn's first rays hit the ruins of the town around the time that England was sipping his first cup of tea. In the dim light of morning, the damage didn't look half as bad as it had the evening before while it was still burning. Still, though, it was a right mess, and it would be a very long time before it could be right again- if ever.

The surprisingly uncracked lenses caught a few of the sun's rays, and drew England's attention to the glasses sitting conspicuously next to his small pot of red bush tea. (A tolerable substitute for the real thing, but still he missed his usual). But he was allowing his mind to be distracted from the reality of a tiny bud of an idea. Plenty of men wore glasses. There were probably a half-dozen or so on the runway that day- any one of them could've lost those.

And it wasn't as though the light was fantastic at that hour of the evening. England had identified Canada, of course, but he'd known the boy was about somewhere. The pilot had, through some trick of the light, looked vaguely similar, been yelled at by his country in that familiar fashion, and he was overwrought.

And America was neutral, and indisposed indefinitely.

Whatever kindling of hope that England had left to burn should be extinguished. That idiot and his isolationism could sit there forever, as far as he was concerned. There'd be absolutely no way that he'd be flying any sort of fighter here. America's boss would have been having kittens.

And yet...

The best way to dispell this faint kernel was to go visit the lad, and see how he didn't really look like America in the daylight.

Ten minutes to the damaged hospital did nothing but make the little ball of nerves in his gut play a symphony. The _human_ pilot had been wounded. Had he even lived through the night?

The nurses didn't question his authority as he asked for the pilots who'd been brought in the day before, giving him the grim news of the deaths of three, and the poor outlook for at least two more.

None of the names were familiar, honestly. Some were his, but by this time, England was a bit numb to the pain. Not that it didn't sting- it did- but it wasn't enough to keep him from taking his leave of the station to look into the wards for familiar faces. They'd identified the pilot who'd landed in Woolston to him easily, however he took his time going towards the bed at the end of the line.

_Williams, A. Flight Sergeant._

His injuries had apparently looked worse than they were, and England could see Canada standing at his bedside.

The words 'Unnecessary risk' and 'Sending you back' reached his ears before Canada, acting on some sixth sense that unnerved the hell out of England, swung around, his body blocking the view of the airman on the bed.

"Hello, Arthur." Canada was smiling in that odd fake way that sent chills down England's spine. "What brings you here this early in the morning?"

"Your sergeant there." England drew the spectacles out of his pocket. "He dropped something last night."

"He doesn't have much use for them right now." Canada said firmly, "With the cuts on his face, it'll be a while before he can even put them on."

"So they are his then." England smiled faintly, as suspicion coloured his thoughts again. "May I return them to him in person?"

"He's asleep."

"You were just yelling at him." Yes. Canada was hiding something. "Why are you afraid to let me meet your Sergeant Williams?"

Williams. Matthew Williams- that was what Canada went by among the humans, wasn't it? And 'A. Williams'-

"I'm not afraid. I just want him to heal, so I can chew his ass out for real."

"What is his first name, Matthew?"

"It's- Albert." Canada visibly tried not to react to the sudden snort of laughter from behind him. "Albert Williams. Why?"

"Mattie..." The familiar voice spoke at a volume and in tones that England hadn't heard for years. He'd almost forgotten that America could be quiet and serious. "Jig's up. He knows."

Canada sighed, and stepped aside to reveal his carbon copy (Literally at the moment, since America's hair was raven-dark, and his skin was a bit more tanned than England remembered, contrasting with Canada's winter-pale.) There were indeed bandages in places that would make wearing glasses painful, but being who he was, they wouldn't last long.

It was America. Here. America was neutral, but he was here-

"You won't tell anyone, will you, Arthur?"

"You shouldn't even be here, Alfred." England tried to put the frown back on, but the slight elation at the very idea that America had been among the pilots defending him- "One condition. You tell me why you're here, when your boss would have your arse on a platter if he knew."

"I think he has an idea where I am." Alfred's pleading look faltered to one of resignation. "There's only so long someone can be 'on a hunting trip' before the office gets suspicious."

"But why?" England tried again, attempting to keep the breathless wonder out of his voice. "Why are you here, why are you fighting? This isn't your war, remember?"

"Politically, I can't be here, I'm not here. But while many of my people don't want to get involved, but there are men who remember what you are to me. Who you are. Some who won't wait to stand up to evil men- and will risk everything, including losing..." A hand, refreshingly free of injury gestured towards America's own heart. "I can't stand to see you hurt-I don't want to see you on your knees again, Arthur."

"You -" England's eye twitched. Reminding him of that at a time like this, and yet- there was a regret to that statement. An ounce of something that made the little fire of hope rekindle. "What do you-"

"I don't want you to fall, Arthur. Not like this. My people are human. They'll come back around eventually- the rest of them, that is- but in the meantime, I can't just stand idly by and watch."

"The rest of them." England repeated, "You mean-"

"Hiding under my flag- and under yours. I'm surprised you didn't sniff them out earlier." Canada said from his side, where England had forgotten him. "Some were recruited, some volunteered. They're all risking losing their citizenship to help you. Ironic, isn't it? You tried to force some to serve at one point, to the point of war, and yet now some come willingly in your hour of need."

"You can't stand idle and watch, but you and your men have to hide what you're doing."

"That's the gist of it. Please don't spread it. It's hard enough to keep a secret among ourselves."

"Johnston died this morning." Canada said suddenly, "Al got a last minute with him. That's the other reason why. He's to be buried with full honours as a Canadian hero."

"But he's not." England guessed. "Alfred..."

"One of mine. Not the only one either."

"They're decent fighters." Canada said, "Trainable. If America can join the war for real, it won't be long until it's finished."

"Until the day that the war's over, all I can do for them is tell them that I'm proud of them, that I'll remember them. That they did a good job. The rest of my people may never know, but I'll know, and keep their stories, and tell them to those left behind." The uncharacteristically sober face broke into a broad smile. "They'll be heroes, just like me."

Canada didn't even bother trying to stop England's half-hearted cuff to the side of America's head.


End file.
